by PK Hrezo
“I’ll just get back to the office then, make arrangements,” I tell Dad, moving toward the door.
“Already working on it,” he says, studying the screen data. “But you can get Mr. Van Nuys on the phone for a follow up. He mentioned booking another trip next month if the hearing in his left ear returns. I want to get him booked and paid in full while his first trip is fresh in his mind. Oh, and what about Mr. Helms? You said he also mentioned the frequent traveler program, didn’t you?”
I’m about to answer with a question, when I notice the concentrated look on Dad’s face, his gaze still plastered on-screen. He’s folding his bottom lip between his fingers.
My T-cube must’ve registered. He must be seeing the residuals.
“Mind if I hitch a ride down?” Garth wraps her scarf around her, pulls her hat on.
“Take the snowmobile,” Dad tells me, his voice aloof, as though he’s barely paying attention. “I won’t need it right away …”
I nod, a little twinge of nervousness in my gut. Won’t be long before he decodes the T-cube program and knows I was lying. At least Garth won’t be here. But I’ll have some big time explaining to do. I’ll have to spill everything to Mom and Dad, which is probably for the best. It’s the only way. If anyone can understand, it’s them. They’d never alter the natural time flow on purpose. I have to trust Evangeline knew what she was doing when she told me about T-cube.
Besides, who says I didn’t introduce it to this century in the first place? Or that a future Butterman didn’t invent it?
Outside, Garth and I are silent up to the snowmobile. She climbs on behind me.
“Your father’s a nice man,” she says, her tone with a trace of condescension.
I’m not sure how to take it, or how much she knows. Truth is, I’m a little spooked. She’s not the same one-track-mind-to-shut-us-down desperado she was before. Seems dates and goals have loosened somehow. What else about this timeline has changed? Could be only minor things—trivial occurrences.
Which leaves me with one burning question: where’s Tristan?
CHAPTER 28
The idea of saving Titanic seems like years ago, but now it’s closer than ever since Butterman Travel hasn’t been shut down. Mom and Dad said since my test trip with Garth was a success yesterday, I can have my Induction Day as early as next month. My ride-along was painless, though I know Garth tried to stump me with the International Dateline. First, we targeted the Sydney Opera House on New Year’s Eve fifty-seven years ago, with an hour time window. From there, I opened a time window for Macchu Picchu on New Year’s Day with a two hour time window. Dad juiced Essence up for the itinerary and set an alarm for me to remember to initiate the power reserve. I won’t lie, the port entry over Peru at the Cuzco latitude was tricky, and if I hadn’t already solo-commanded a few time trips of my own prior, it may’ve tripped me up. I guess a little confidence comes with experience. To my mega relief, Garth never said a word about Woodstock or the CCL.
Neither did I.
Still, I got the feeling she knew something, or at least was hiding information. And something tells me the DOT will never fully ignore Butterman Travel—not with their move to quarterly visits and pop audits on leisurely travel, which Mom and Dad still plan on lobbying against. Until I can find out what part Butterman Travel plays in the future, everything matters. And I’ve no doubt the DOT feels the same way.
We can’t risk anymore rule bending, or T-cubing, that’s for sure.
The widescreen panels above Agnes’s bar flash with news reports and advertisements. Agnes lets them run alongside the data stream sites, so we can see everything at once—weather, headlines, sports, and of course, commercials. She says the customers prefer it. Not me. I could go for the Serene Island Surf hologram site right about now.
“I’m sure glad it’s over,” Kayla says, squeaking her bar stool and slurping chowder from her spoon.
Agnes makes the best chowder in the Arctic, got the mix for sale in little plastic baggies on the counter. People come from miles around to try it. Right now, only a few customers are inside, but that’s normal. This is northern Alaska, not like people waltz in off the street. Other than random locals, customers only come from the lodge, the inn, or as trucker pit stops on their way back south.
“No kidding.” I trace lines in my chunky broth with my spoon.
Kayla lowers her voice. “And where, or when do you think they came from?”
“Not sure I wanna know,” I say.
She’s referring to Evangeline and Evan after I just filled her in on the latest twist to the timeline. Kayla’s same as always—unaffected by anything I may have tampered with. I’m glad. In that way, she grounds me. Life needs a constant, I think—something stable that we can always count on. Especially for a time traveler. Kayla’s that for me, and I love her for it.
“She looked like me, though,” I say. “And the way they trusted me, spoke if they knew me, was so bizarre. Anyway, I don’t plan on messing with it. Dad says we need to leave it alone, let it settle. Or else we could render the CCL into a holding pattern.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t even IM’d Tristan. Must be killing you to know what he said to past-you. You gotta call him, find out. I’m telling you, he wanted you to call him.”
I dab my spoon in the bowl, let it clink on the brown ceramic. My appetite is blah. And I’ve got the worst case of time-lag ever. My brain has these little tremors every so often, and I’d be concerned, except I can’t believe Evangeline would suggest T-cube if I were going to croak afterwards. Unless that’s what’s supposed to happen. Ugh. My head quakes again.
I massage my temples. “Once my head stops spinning, I’ll call him. Important thing is, he did what he needed to. He came through.”
Kayla slurps again, glances around the room. “Okay, so what I don’t get is, if you two went to Woodstock as planned, and you got back three days ago with no Garth, why isn’t he still here? Why don’t you know where he is?”
I let out a sigh. “Here we go again.”
But Kayla smiles. She knows I’m giving her a hard time. Hey, anyone can get tangled up in this time travel business. Job security. Means leaving it to the time travel professionals is always the smartest choice.
I break it down for her. “I can’t absorb knowledge from my timeline if I’ve been on either side of it, right? Right. So during the time window, when I’m in the past or future, life around me continues, but when I return to my present, I have to catch up to it, see what I missed. Like now.”
“Too messed up for me,” she says. “He could be at the inn right now. I’m gonna call up there.” She pulls out her phone.
I lean in closer to her. “Not yet. I’m still getting my bearings. And it’s not like he’s called me either. I … I’m not sure what to say yet. And I don’t wanna be the one chasing after him. Chicks are always chasing after him.”
She shakes her head, dials a number. “I just wanna see if he’s up there. I won’t talk to him.”
She doesn’t understand what I’m really afraid of: that our timeline could’ve been altered in a way that Tristan and I didn’t bond. That he doesn’t feel the same as he did—if he ever felt anything at all.
My eye twitches. Explaining T-cube to my parents was easier than trying to figure out these emotions.
Kayla slides her phone in her purse, gives me a sad little smile. “Checked out early two days ago, after an urgent call from his agent.”
My heart sinks, both relieved and disappointed. At least he still exists and a major PF didn’t occur. “Did they say why?”
“Couldn’t say. You know how it is for celebrities.” She waves a hand, like the demanding social agendas of A-listers is common knowledge.
The diner door opens and bells jingle. My chest flutters. Holy hell, what’s happening to me? I actually got excited that it could be him. He’s not even in town.
A burly trucker with a red hat saunters in, grunts at Agnes behind the bar, and
plops on a stool at the far end.
This is insane. I have to set a game plan, figure out what I’ll say to him and make the call. Stop acting like a wuss. I’m a big girl, I can handle rejection. Besides, he never has to know there’s anything more to the call than a professional courtesy follow up.
I swivel off my stool, start for the door. “I have to figure this out.”
“Oh my gosh, Bianca, look at this!” Kayla squeals, pointing to the widescreen over the bar.
There, at the top right, in the arts and entertainment section, an image of someone who looks just like Tristan on an outdoor stage somewhere. My breath catches in my throat. Moving closer, I gesture so the section expands full screen, then motion the volume control. It is Tristan. Has to be a recorded performance. What timing! So not good for the nerves right now. Only …
A red-headed announcer calls out to an outdoor crowd, “For our next live performance, give it up for former boy band superstar, Tristan Helms! In his first ever live solo!”
Holy. Hell.
I gesture the info at the bottom right and it populates in a moving tagline at the bottom: 10.21.69: Musicians for Muscular Dystrophy: A Night of Good Tunes & Giving. Various artists perform live in Los Angeles, California to raise money and awareness.
How did he get there so fast? He must’ve jumped at the chance, but … My jaw is so tense, I wiggle my chin.
Tristan’s face fills the screen now with a lazy smile.
Those plush lips.
He gives his shaggy blond bangs a toss to the side, while screams from the crowd fill the night air. The camera moves out, giving a full view of him onstage as he grabs an acoustic guitar that looks like it came from a vintage music shop. He really looks great: tight black pants and a loose white shirt unbuttoned midway down his chest. He seems all business while he straps his guitar over his shoulder, checks the thin mike attached to his ear. The camera moves in again for another close up of his face and it leaves nothing out—not the creased smile lines that give his face character, or the slight dimple in his chin; not the golden-tan tone of his skin, or those deep irises that could rival the wildest seas.
“He’s performing. I don’t believe it, he’s performing!” Kayla squeals, clutches my forearms. “He hasn’t sung in months. Bee, this is epic. He looks fantastic—healthier than ever.” Her gaze is glued to the screen.
I’m mesmerized by every detail of his face now—that face that’s been etched in my mind since I last saw him. He strums his guitar, slow at first, summoning a bittersweet melody into the air. Simplistic and frank.
Recognition makes my heart leap into my throat. I know that tune.
In a low octave, he sings, his voice luscious and grainy from his lips. Pleading.
I’m lost in a time warp. Is this real? Everything inside me has sprung to life, but I don’t know where the hell I am. Dreaming. Must be dreaming.
Now the words tumble from his mouth faster, harder, a salty-sweetness in each raspy note. A voice so deliciously right, I can almost taste it. It isn’t until he croons the chorus that I tremble.
“Tossed on the tides of time
Where nothing true can ever hide.
Eternity would still end too soon
If I can’t see you, feel you.
And my arms will stay open wide
If you fall I will catch you every time.”
He remembered. Even though we skipped Manhattan …
It’s like he’s looking right at me, and although I know it’s not really me he sees, the glimmer in his eye is too familiar. The same earnest twinkle he had when he told me he’d catch me if I fell. I assumed he’d said it on a whim. But holy hell if I’m not falling. At this very moment, I’m falling. Faster, harder.
Catch me, Tristan.
The song continues, unfolding at an even tempo, full of melody and gritty spunk. Tristan’s voice stretches far and high in some places, scratchy and short in others, seducing the mike, the audience, everything in its path. So honest, so raw. Nothing like U-Turn. Nothing like Dirk Stiles. Every note and chord so wrong from the boy band norm, but oh so right at the same time. He believes in his talent now, is unleashing it on the world. Now every chick in existence will fall even more in love with him.
So not what I need.
As the song ends, and the last note of his voice melts into his guitar chords, his eyes close. When they reopen, they’re beaming like the rest of his face, grinning that superstar grin. He gives a timid wave to the audience, who are cheering in front of the stage.
The announcer struts on stage in her spiky heels and glittery dress, touches Tristan’s shoulder like they’re old friends. Her voice overpowers the cheering. “Ladies and gentlemen, Tristan Helms back in action, and can I just add, doing it right!” She’s fully focused on him, letting her voice play with each word for effect. “Tell me, sweetie, you had a tough run earlier this year, but you did what you had to do, took care of business, and never let your fans down. Do you regret breaking up from U-Turn?”
He shakes his head, speaking calmly, as if the world isn’t watching him at this very moment—as if a crowd of screaming girls isn’t right below him. “My U-Turn brothers know I love ’em. Always will. I’m just doing what feels right, following my heart, you know?”
The announcer nods. “Well, the world is thrilled, Tristan, and you never looked better. What made you decide to sing this particular song for your number tonight?”
My knees are jelly.
Tristan averts his eyes for only a second, half-smiles. “It’s a song I wrote last year and it means a lot to me, symbolic in a way. Thought I’d lost it for awhile, but luckily, it came back to me.” He pauses to allow a few loud hoots to drift in from the audience and grins back at them. “Thank you! I love you too!”
More whistles, cheers.
Then his voice resonates over the speakers again, “A good friend helped me find these lyrics again, and I told her if she ever fell, I’d be there to catch her. She told me if I ever sang this song like I just did, it’d be a success. Well, I’m keeping up my end of the deal.” His superstar grin fades to a shy smile.
Buzzing. In my head. Shock, on my face. But inside my chest, I’m tingling with something new and wonderful and electric. It was real.
“No freakin’ way!” Kayla squeals, grabs my arm.
My attention is fixed on the screen.
“Tristan, I think it’s safe to say you’ve got a hit single on your hands after tonight,” the announcer says with a wink.
He grins even wider. The crowd roars again. Then the stage lights dim around him and the announcer claims the spotlight, gushing about the evening’s next charity performance.
Show Tristan again.
Kayla gestures the volume so it lowers. “Tell me he’s talking about you. Tell me!”
A grin spreads across my face so far that my cheeks hurt. “I’m pretty sure he is.”
Given the altered timeline, we still connected, still bonded. He rediscovered his lyrics because I reminded him. Like it was meant to be.
“You’re gonna call him now for sure, right?” Kayla asks.
I nod. “Oh yeah.”
And like an epiphany just landed on my shoulder, everything feels right. A calming acceptance settles over me, and I know, that even through the twists and uncertainty of time, it’s okay if my heart sometimes leads me. Butterman Travel, Inc. has a future. Kayla will always be my best friend. And Tristan and I have a chance. Maybe I’ll get to save Titanic someday soon, and maybe I won’t, but what matters most is that the people I love are already safe and happy.
And since there’s no time like the present, I think I’ll stay awhile.
NOW AVAILABLE:
The story continues in Book 2 of the Butterman Travel series
INDUCTION DAY
Bianca’s prequel is also available in DIARY OF A TEENAGE TIME TRAVELER
Download them right now at http://down-the-rabbithole.com
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’d like to acknowledge you, the reader, for taking a chance on an unknown author, and embarking on Bianca’s and Tristan’s journey. Thank you.
My agent, Jordy Albert, for your support and belief in my work, as well as your keen eye for story. My long-time trusty critique partner, Kathryn Rose, for your superb skills and endearing friendship, and for never complaining about my messy first drafts. My early readers and critique comrades: Tammy Thierault, Sydney Aaliyah, Carol Riggs—you’ve all been outstanding! To the IWSG crew, for all your support and generosity throughout this journey—I share this accomplishment with you. Susan Kaye Quinn, for your indie expertise and generosity of sharing it. Anne Victory, for your editing and attention to detail. For my cover artist, Jaycee DeLorenzo, you rock, and I love how you always seem to be in tune with my vision.
Nancy Layne McCallum, for your blessing and kindness regarding my dedication. Thank you for sharing your son with the world, and for the work you do to help those suffering from addiction.
I’d also like to acknowledge and recognize the other talents of Alice in Chains and Mad Season: Jerry Cantrell, Mike Starr (RIP), Sean Kinney, Mike Inez, Mike McCready, John “Baker” Saunders(RIP), Barrett Martin. Thank you for rockin’ my new adult years.
Michael Wadleigh, for his brilliant film documentary, Woodstock. It was my go-to reference in creating my story’s scenes. Jimihendrix.com for the wealth of information on the superstar Hendrix was.
